Flakefall
"The scythe of Autumn felled the withered day,
and low the grazing Winter claimed new hay,
in hungry double-handfuls." I
am tempted by the echo of old lines
to quit this forward place, but am arrived
where boldly-stroked black letters lie
succumbed in whiteness. "Once, before the snow
had ever spoken harshly to the ground,
it lay but as a gift." One sound
returns me now unwilling to the page. "It is an age
of cold white hysterical noise."
24 December, 2001
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